


Together They Are The Tricolor

by Sodafly



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:35:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If a lord is allowed to take both a wife and mistress, but love one more than the other, then why cannot I take two partners and love them equally?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together They Are The Tricolor

Contrary to popular belief, the Musain isn’t the only place the Amis liked to pass the hours in. True, the café is the headquarters for their meetings, a place where they are known by name and granted the privacy of the backroom away from the prying eyes of the unwanted. If people are to ask about the ABC Society then it is simple ‘My good man, the Café Musain is where you will find them’. But there are times when joyful celebration is needed, and the backroom of the Musain is abandoned in favor of more rigorous establishments.

 

Nights like tonight, where Enjolras has indulged in the requests of his fellow brothers and permitted they find somewhere else to spend the night, where there is wine and song and dance aplenty. It is following the news that they have managed to secure most of the artillery on the long list Enjolras spent months trying to obtain, all without knowledge of the authorities. It acts as a reminder, that the republican dream is in sight, that their hard work has not yet gone to waste, and what kind of leader would he be if he did celebrate victory?

 

So naturally they end up in a place where the young men of the aristocracy go to spend their evenings courting the beautiful young women with wine and dancing, and whoever allowed Grantaire to commandeer the piano is regretting the decision, as the music turns from the traditional dances of the upper class to something found in the basements of the common public houses. Courfeyrac is singing vulgar songs about sailors bedding exotic women in their travels, a song that meets a boisterous uproar from both their friends and the other young rich gentlemen.

 

Enjolras takes a table near the window, sitting with Combeferre at his side as they watch their friends positively lose themselves. They’ve both indulged in wine, even if Enjolras has only taken a few mouthfuls from the bottle before growing bored of the alcohol, passing the bottle to Combeferre who graciously accepts. Needles to say, Enjolras does not want to be here and his stomach turns as he watches the rich in all their finery drink their wine and praise the king for all he’s blessed them with. He wants to stand on top of the piano Grantaire is playing and shout at them for all their pompous naivety, damn them for their pleasures. But the group had dragged him here against his wishes, and a part of him does enjoy watching as his friends turn the respectable establish into nothing more but a common knees up.

 

“Our dear Courfeyrac is going to find himself in all sorts of trouble if he does not restrain himself.” Enjolras says, gesturing to Courfeyrac who has now turned his attention onto two women who by the looks of it have only just come of age, a charming smile on his lips and a hand lingering dangerous close to one of the girl’s skirts. One of them laughs prettily as the other bats her eyelashes and in the background, the father watches on with increasing anger toward the gentleman wishing to divest his daughters of their honor.

 

Combeferre laughs.

 

“My friend, I’m afraid we will all end up in trouble soon. The owners of this establishment will no doubt have us out on the street in no time.”

 

And true to his word, by the time the father of the girls who have caught Courfeyrac’s eye is shouting his disgrace, the group of students is being told to leave. They go with little fuss, happy that they’ve ruffled the feathers of the upper class and a few of them have left in the company of not so virtuous women. Nevertheless they are laughing and in high spirits on the walk back into the heart of Paris.

 

“My friends, isn’t Paris beautiful tonight?” Courfeyrac announces, slinging arms around Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s shoulders and drawing the pair up close to either side. He’s drunk and grinning, tipping his head back to laugh at the clear sky where stars shine in abundance.  “Ah, but I am being foolish, Paris is beauty ever night and every day. Your mistress is as stunning as she is cruel is she not Enjolras?”

 

“She is.” Enjolras sighs something akin to love for his city swelling around the edges of the words.

 

“And you Courfeyrac are as drunk as you are exasperating” Combeferre says, adjusting Courfeyrac’s hold when it grows too tight around his neck. Courfeyrac turns to him with a grin that can only be described as wicked.

 

“Handsome Combeferre, I do believe you meant ‘Courfeyrac you are as drunk as you are handsome.”

 

“Vanity is not attractive.”

 

“That is not what all the women in France are telling me”

 

“No, they are telling him that he is a wretch before promptly taking a backhand to the cheek.” Enjolras says, and the look of utterly wounded pride on Courfeyrac’s face has him smiling against restraint. Courfeyrac’s arms slips from Combeferre’s shoulder to arch over his heart.

 

“Oh Enjolras, why must you wound me so? Is there not a thought of mercy in that pretty head of yours?”

 

“Not when you are drunk.”

 

Courfeyrac gives an over dramatic sigh, tossing both arms into the air with a force that almost send him toppling backwards. 

 

“Sweet Patria what have you done to fair Enjolras?” He shouts into the sky, playing a theatrics as he stumbles ahead of them “Nay, what have you done to _me_ Lady France? Bestowed upon me such harsh friends, I would give all the women in the world to make these noble gentlemen have softer hearts.”

 

“Do you think he is quite finished?” Enjolras mutters to Combeferre with an amused look on his face, as Courfeyrac tries no to stumble on the cobblestones.

 

“He could go on all night if we allowed it. I shall make sure he gets back to his room safely.” Combeferre replies as they approach the building that houses Enjolras’ rooms. There are no candles burning on the inside but the residents have most likely been awoken by their friend’s drunken ramblings.

 

They exchange goodnights, Courfeyrac back tracking his steps to press a sloppy kiss on Enjolras’ cheek.

 

“Dream of your republic fearless leader.” Courfeyrac calls out from the street as their leader goes inside, earning him a harsh shush from Combeferre who supports his weight as they make their way down the street. 

 

Enjolras does not dream at all.

 

*

 

The Amis is formed around the fundamental triangle that Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac form in each other’s company. They are three points, jointed to one another by the linking lines that would collapse if one of the points were removed. Enjolras could not stand alone, too reckless, too demanding, too forward thinking that he himself is forgotten to the point of extremities. Combeferre and Courfeyrac must be linked to him, to anchor and guide and bring a sense of humanity to a man who appears almost subhuman in nature.

 

Combeferre has followed Enjolras since childhood, such close friends in schooling that Combeferre was dragged along in the whirlpool of political realization that hit Enjolras at a surprisingly young age. Courfeyrac came later, swept up by Enjolras’ first public speech many years ago and not parting since.

 

And now they stand as a trio, as figureheads of a revolution that is entirely their own. Enjolras stands ever so slightly higher on the metaphorical podium, Combeferre and Courfeyrac on either side. It is only fitting that they form a three, as if to represent the red, white and blue of the beloved tricolor.

 

Enjolras would have it no other way.

 

*

 

“Dominoes I say! Dominoes! He begs for a chance to prove his worth and he throws it back in my face. How dare he!”

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac can only watch from their position sat upon Enjolras’ bed as their leader paces up and down the narrow width of his room, ranting and raving with animated fury. It’s following the event at the Barriere du Maine in which Grantaire was more interested in playing dominoes rather than spreading word as he had asked Enjolras to allow him. Why how their leader had scolding the poor drunk, it was frightful and yet it appears that had not been the end of it.

 

“If he even has the nerve to show his face tomorrow, I swear to God I will lynch him for his mockery.”

 

“Enjolras please, you must calm down.” Combeferre says rubbing a hand over his eyes before replacing his glasses. “What has past has past, you must stop.” 

 

“I whole heartedly agree, your shouting is giving not only me, but probably the neighbors also, quite the headache.” Courfeyrac yawns from his position sprawled out on top of the sheets, pressing his feet against Combeferre’s back. 

 

Enjolras turns sharply in his pacing, glaring at Courfeyrac with the fire in his eyes flaming out of control. The verbal rampage will undoubtably turn to unintentionally insulting Courfeyrac if it isn’t put to a stop. Which is where Combeferre comes into play, sliding from the foot of the bed to place both hands on Enjolras’ shoulders.

 

“That is quite enough for tonight.” Combeferre says with a stern patience that leaves no room for negotiation. “It is late, and way past the time for fury. Go to bed.”

 

Deflating underneath the gentle hold, Enjolras sighs, the glare easing out into a frown as he moves out from beneath Combeferre’s hands to join Courfeyrac at the top of the bed. He pulls his shirt up over his head, all but pushing Courfeyrac from the bed.

 

“Peace at last.” Courfeyrac sighs with a smile that earns him a nudge to the ribs from Combeferre.  As always, they leave their leader in peace, but always return by morning.

 

*

 

“Hold still.” Combeferre says, cleaning the wound on the side of Enjolras’ head, that narrowly missed his eye to catch his temple instead. Blood stains the curls of his blonde hair and he only flinches once when the alcohol stings too much. Courfeyrac isn’t in a much better state, knuckles bruised and palms gashed, but at least both their wounds are minor.

 

Enjolras’ expression is sour, but not upset. In fact, he seems oddly delighted by the power the mob of people possessed, empowered by it even. Any other person would deem the rally as a disaster, but not Enjolras, he deemed it as a success by mere demonstration.

 

“They rallied at the sound of our call.” Enjolras says, his expression a little dazed which might have something to do with the impressive blow to the head he had received.

 

“You did not tell them to do that, they did that on their own accord.” Courfeyrac replies, also sounding a little amazed.

 

It had started off no differently from any other rally, Enjolras stood on his box with Bahorel at his side, waving his pamphlets and damning the monarchy. Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood in the crowd, cheering along, handing out pamphlets and motivating the people around them. It was wonderful as always, each one of Enjolras’ biting cries meeting an uproar in reply, every single person inspired by the passionate fire that made up his person.

 

When the authorities showed up following complaints of public disturbance, the rally had turned into a riot. When the police had attempted to reach the platform where Enjolras stood like a God amongst men, the crowd had surged, uncontrolled and angered that they dare try to arrest a man who noticed their anguish. From then on, it had become their sole task to get Enjolras out of there alive as the violence commenced around them. Combeferre found Courfeyrac first, helping a woman off the ground lest she be trampled by the mob. 

 

“Where is Enjolras?” Combeferre asked urgently, taking Courfeyrac by the arm as they pushed through the crowd.

 

“I do not know.” Courfeyrac replied with equal haste pulling Combeferre out the path of a man making a b-line towards a group attacking a police officer, near on beating the official to death. Blood was splattering the street in mismatched patches and the noise was like the crashing of storm fueled waves against a ship.

 

They find Enjolras looking around in dazed fascination, with blood running down the side of his face and staining his shirt collar. Two sets of hands grab him, pulling the man who sways ever so slightly completely captivated by the fury of the crowd, into an alleyway close to the impending chaos.

 

“Who did this?” Combeferre snaps, pressing Enjolras up against the brick of building, one hand keeping his shoulder steady as Courfeyrac crowds next to him.

 

“Look at them, they’re raising up against the tyranny of the monarchy. They’re hearing our call to arms. They fight in the name republicanism.” Enjolras says, his voice escalating in volume with every word, his expression close to ecstatic. Wonderment has consumed him, making him seemingly unaware of the sustained injury.

 

“Enjolras focus, where did the injury come from?”

 

“Combeferre hush, and let go of me, one cannot desert the people when they are in such as state.” Enjolras snaps, pushing away the hands hold him the wall. He makes to rejoin the mob, only to be pulled back and restrained, Courfeyrac holding him secure with both arms wrapped around his torso as Combeferre herds them both back against wall once more.

 

Enjolras cries out, thrashing against their hold in vain, shouting so loudly that Courfeyrac has no choice but to clamp a hand over his mouth to silence the words of revolution lest they be discovered. By the fierce in the leader’s eye, they know forgiveness for the act will not come quickly, if at all.

 

“We must go before we are found, the bleeding has slowed at least and there does not appear to be any fracturing. However, I do not feel like dealing with the police right now, so if you’d like to help me” Combeferre says to Courfeyrac and together they manage to drag Enjolras to Combeferre’s rooms.

 

By the time they have climbed the stairs, Enjolras seemed to have regained most of his senses, sitting down on the floor and allowing Combeferre to tend to wound whilst Courfeyrac inspects the minor damage to his hand.

 

“Someone hit me, probably one of the official, I did not see his face. I dare say it was what started the riot.” Enjolras mutters finally, blinking out of the trance he had placed himself in as Combeferre stitches up the worst of the head wound. Perhaps Enjolras had not realized the martyr he is making of himself, is deaf to the hopeful way some people spoke of him when they gathered to hear him speak, something akin to awe in their tones. Too focused on the divine task of revolution set upon him by fate, perhaps Enjolras did not realize that he is in fact, loved.

 

“Your words could never fall upon deaf ear even if you wanted them to.” Combeferre says softly, glancing over as Courfeyrac comes to sit cross-legged next to their leader, loosening the ribbon tying up Enjolras’ long curls once the stitching had been completed.  “But for now, you must rest.”

 

“How can I rest when we are standing on the brink?”

 

“And how can you stand on the brink when your body is too exhausted to carry your weight?”

 

Enjolras sighs, turning his head to look out of the window, where long stripes of sunlight are being cast upon the floorboards. Combeferre tidies away the bloodied cloth and cleans the stitching hooks. 

 

“You are winning Paris’ heart, as she has already won yours.” Courfeyrac says softy, fingers playing with Enjolras’ hair as the blonde leans against him, head resting upon his shoulder.

 

*

 

But of course, Enjolras does not rest, driving his body through late nights and long days with very little food or sleep. After three days, the dark circles become noticeable, stark on pale skin. The head wound has long since healed, leaving only a small red scar across his temple that will fade in time (a mark that is mostly hidden by hair that still manages to look silky no matter what.)

 

The intervention comes just in time, when Combeferre and Courfeyrac let themselves into Enjolras’ rooms one night following their leader’s absence from the Musain. The meeting had seemed quite lost without him, although Courfeyrac and Combeferre did their best to tend to the matters at hand. It is not like Enjolras to miss meetings no matter what the circumstance.

 

But here their leader is, reading a book by candlelight, his head so close to the flat surface of the desk that any man would think he had a trouble seeing the text.

 

“And to think we thought you had been struck by illness.” Courfeyrac teased with a smirk.

 

“No, he has only been struck by stubbornness.” Combeferre sighs, rolling his eyes as Enjolras registers their presence, leaning back in his chair and attempting in vain to not look exhausted.

 

“Refrain from scolding me Combeferre, I have been busy.” Enjolras snaps despite himself, earning an indulgent hum from his guide.

 

“Then we are here to relieve you of your duties…as well as your waistcoat.” Courfeyrac announces, sliding behind the chair and gently pulling the unbuttoned waistcoat from Enjolras’ shoulders. The cravat has already been lost, and shirt unbuttoned to almost fully reveal his pectoral muscles.

 

There is very little resistance as Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras up, guiding him around the chair and towards the bed with a sure hand, laughing when Enjolras promptly falls face first onto the mattress, content to sleep boots and all.

 

“Come now, you cannot sleep like that” Courfeyrac tuts, curling up behind Enjolras to help pull his shirt over his head, hands sliding over the warm skin of his chest as he does so. Combeferre yanks off his boots, placing them at the foot of the bed.

 

“I can do the rest myself, thank you Courfeyrac” Enjolras mumbles when Courfeyrac tries to undo the buckle of his belt only to be slapped away.

 

His fingers fumble and limbs feel like lead, movement sluggish and without eloquence. The belt is tossed aside carelessly, hitting the floorboard with a thud as the trousers stay firmly in place. With some maneuvering, Combeferre eventually manages to get Enjolras under the sheets, pointedly ignoring Courfeyrac as he undresses himself down to the trousers. He knows the other is more inclined to sleep naked, but is thankful he is not indulging his preference for comforts sake.

 

“I suppose you intend to stay the night then.” Enjolras mumbles, eyes already closed as he moves along to allowed Courfeyrac to take the center of the bed.

 

“If it will stop you from going back to work, then yes.” Combeferre says, placing his glasses on the table and wriggling under the sheets to nestle at Courfeyrac’s side.

 

“That, and Pontmercy’s current melancholy state is become quite sad to watch.” Courfeyrac adds, brining light to his current living condition and earning a grunt of malcontent from Enjolras. Marius Pontmercy had been mentioned rarely following the man’s refusal to attend their meetings any longer.

 

“With that said, I would rather share rooms with my two most acceptable companions.” Courfeyrac yawns, throwing an arm over Enjolras’ waist.

 

“At the current time, they do not feel so inclined to share lodgings with you Courfeyrac, now please, go to sleep.” Enjolras says, bowing his head slightly so his hair won’t suffocate Courfeyrac in the night.

 

When they wake the following morning, they are a tangled mess of limbs sharing a too small bed.

 

*

 

The slow dance they had been performing around each other comes to an end rather abruptly. Spring is in full bloom and certainly Paris is at her most beautiful during the spring, when flowers are in bloom and sunlight rains down on every cobblestone. Not even the spring showers can grey her beauty, but crown her with gems of water droplets that capture light in their dewy fingers.

 

Enjolras, for all his oblivious chastity doesn’t think anything of it when Courfeyrac leans over his shoulder one night at the Musain to whisper “Combeferre and I are thinking of retiring for the night, would you care to join us?”

 

There’s a look in Courfeyrac’s eyes that Enjolras cannot pin but it has the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge and he whispers back “Just give me a moment, and I will accompany you.”

 

Courfeyrac’s grin is wicked as he nods and retreats to Combeferre’s side, allowing Enjolras to finish the conversation he is having with Jehan. He takes his time like always, biding his friends goodnight each in turn, removing the fourth bottle of wine from Grantaire’s hand and telling him to go home whilst he can still catch his bearings. Eventually it is Combeferre who links his arm through Enjolras’ in order to partly drag him out the café.

 

It is no issue, Enjolras is already used to the company of the two men in the evening, is already used to waking up with them sprawled on his floor or across his bed. Climbing the stairs rooms with the two in tow is nothing out of the ordinary. What is out of the ordinary however, is the way Courfeyrac and Combeferre stand side by side a little awkwardly when the door closes, looking as if they want to say something but have no possible way to voice it. Enjolras cracks open a window because the room has been left in the sun all day and turns back with one eyebrow raised.

 

“Whatever is the matter with you two?”

 

“Ah, well you see, we were wondering if…you’d like to partake in a different activity tonight?” Courfeyrac says, cringing at the awkwardness of his own words

 

“Like what?” Enjolras frowns, rather content with the usual routine of reading and chatter before sleep. Whatever could they do at this time of night anyhow? Combeferre rubs the back of his neck and Courfeyrac shuffles from one foot to the other, exchanging glances in broken, silent conversation. It wears his patience thin.

 

“Neither one of you has the habit of being at folly with words, now out with it.”

 

“It is better that we show you.” Courfeyrac concludes, striding across to the window to take Enjolras by the shoulder as the other hand gently curls beneath his jaw to tilt his head and kiss him. The kiss takes him by surprise, but there is nothing repulsive about the act and Enjolras quickly finds himself sinking into the soft press of closed lips, fingers on one hand threading into Courfeyrac’s hair.

 

It’s not that Enjolras has no sexual experience despite his outward chastity; he just doesn’t consider sexual endeavors a priority. But when Courfeyrac is teasing his mouth open with a tongue lapping at his bottom lip, and Combeferre moves to stand behind and place small kisses on his neck, Enjolras feels desire coil in his stomach. He pulls back for breath and watches as Combeferre and Courfeyrac kiss lazily over his shoulder, two sets of hands finding their way between the folds of his clothing.

 

Courfeyrac pulls back, taking Enjolras’ hands in his own as he slowly pulls him towards the bed, the half smile merging from coy to playful. Combeferre’s fingers are hooked in the back of his belt.

 

“Will you allow us?” Courfeyrac asks, tone slipping into something devilish, all three of them tumbling down onto the mattress.

 

“You are allowed anything you want.” Enjolras breaths out, moving to straddle Courfeyrac’s lap and accepts Combeferre’s kiss when offered to him.

 

*

 

“You are a fiend” Enjolras drawls the following morning when Courfeyrac sucking at the spot where neck meets shoulder awakes him.

 

“I am many things.” Courfeyrac hums in agreement, dipping to nip the nicely presented collarbone. Morning sunlight is streaming through the half drawn curtains, and the Paris streets are filling with people making their way to Mass. Enjolras cannot remember the last time he attended service, so disgusted by the greed of the church that he cannot stand to sit in pews. Besides, following last night, whatever slim chance of the gate of St Peter still being open to him has promptly been removed.

 

Twisting his neck, Enjolras gently turns Combeferre’s head to face him, half awake eyes blinking blearily with blurred sight. Enjolras places gentle kisses on the corners of his mouth, drawing Combeferre from sleep before kissing him fully.

 

“Please tell me you do not have any surprise rallies or speeches or meetings planned Enjolras” Courfeyrac says, rolling over Enjolras’ body to slot between the two men, never content to not be the center.

 

“No, but there are studies I have to resume.”

 

“In that case, let us resume studies together.”

 

Needless to say, very little studying takes place.

 

*

 

There is no fixed point when they realized that this was how it is meant to be. It all just falls simply into place like three parts of the same puzzle. Together they are the ragged banner, red white and blue, stitched together neatly not because someone thought about it but because they belonged that way. Alas it is the condition of humanity not to understand the things they have no experienced, and a healthy polygamous relationship is hardly published by the romantics of their time.

 

“If a lord is allowed to take both a wife and mistress but love one more than the other.” Courfeyrac states when Enjolras says just that “then why cannot I take two partners and love them equally?”

 

Enjolras sighs, turning away from the window to where Courfeyrac lies quite content against Combeferre’s chest, playing with his fingers as the other reads. Smiling softy, Enjolras resigns himself to fate and joins them, speaking politics whilst fingers braid his hair.

 

Later he comes to reflect, that there had be quite a lot of sense in Courfeyrac’s words

 

*

 

“Courfeyrac will you do me a service?”

 

Enjolras says, as the three of them lie sated in bed following the news of the death of General Lamarque. There is a wicked cross between grief and exhilaration that has Enjolras yearning for the comfort of his fellows.

 

“Have I not provided you quite the service already?” Courfeyrac mumbles, cracking open an eye and pressing his thumb into the bite mark on Enjolras’ hipbone. He rolls his eyes.

 

“Yes and it was superb, but that is not what I’m asking.” He waves a hand towards his desk “Do me a service and grab the transcript.”

 

Ah the transcript, the one Enjolras has worked hard to procure and spent the vast majority of his saving acquiring. Courfeyrac huffs, pulling himself to his feet and walking across the room, uttering unashamed with his own nudity (or the nudity of the other two one must add)

 

“Some light reading in the wake of the news.” Combeferre teases with a small smile, looking at Enjolras across the unoccupied centre of the bed.

 

“Hush now. Courfeyrac, the underlined sections if you would.”

 

He clears his throat and comes to lie between them, holding the papers outwards.

 

“Louis can not be judged he is judged already. He is condemned, or the Republic is not absolved. To propose a trail for Louis XVI in anyway whatever is to retrograde towards the royal and the constitutional despotism; it is a counter-revolutionary idea, for it is putting the revolution itself on trail”

 

Courfeyrac reads, skipping over the beginning sections .He reads with pronounced ease of an established student, using the tone common to when he reads back the speeches written by their leader before grand public speeches. Enjolras enjoys being read to as much as he enjoys speaking aloud, eyes slipping shut as his arms fold behind his head, Courfeyrac shifting to lounge sideways across the pair of them, head resting on Combeferre’s stomach.

 

The funeral march will be soon, the mockery of the authorities to celebrate he death of a man who stood for the people. But to their dismay, the fire of revolution would be lit and the mockery would turn into the fight for the freedom of the people. Taking place in the attic room of the leading students was something similar to a battle preparation, from the sex to the repetition of the speech delivered in 1792 commending Louis XVI to death, all of it used to resign themselves to whatever fate has in store for them.

 

“People do not judge like the judiciary courts. They pass no sentences; they hurl the thunderbolt. They do not condemn kings; they thrust them back into oblivion and this justice is no inferior to that of the courts. If they arm themselves against their oppressors for their own safety, why should they be bound to adopt a mode of punishment them which would be a new danger to themselves?’

 

Combeferre interjects, taking over from Courfeyrac to recite the lines he had memorized. Enjolras’ mouth twitched upwards in a tiny smile of approval, miming the words he knew by heart as he had done since Courfeyrac had started. Courfeyrac relinquishes the papers to Combeferre, draping himself over Enjolras to bury his face in his neck. Long fingers curve around the nape of his neck, grounding like an anchor, tips rough from months, no, years of preparation.

 

As the speech draws to it’s conclusion, Enjolras sits upright, catching Courfeyrac before he topples from the bed and says with all the conviction of Robespierre himself

 

“But a dethroned king in the bosom of a revolution which is anything but cemented by laws, a king whose name suffices to draw the scourge of war on the agitated nation, neither prison nor exile can render his existence immaterial to the public welfare; and this cruel exception to ordinary laws which justice approves can be imputed only to the nature of his crimes.”

 

The increasing volume of Enjolras’ voice comes to a halt; eyes alight with a passion and excitement that always flooded his expression when thoughts of revolution and Lady France filled his head.  He looks towards Combeferre and Courfeyrac, curled around one another, listening with captivated expression so often copied onto the faces of the public. Enjolras sighs, tone notably lower when he speaks once more.

 

“It is with regret that I utter this fatal truth. But Louis must die, because the country must live.”

 

*

 

There are tricolors tied around their waists, a tricolor lying torn and ragged amongst the rubble, and the persons of the tricolor stood side by side upon the barricade, keeping a silent watch as dawn breaks on the final day of their lives.

 

The Nation Guard will return, the other barricades have fallen in the night and by this time; they have realized the inevitability that they too will fall in just a matter of moments.

 

“I dare say, I can not think of any other way I’d like to die.” Courfeyrac says, managing to sound cheerful despite the fear, the light of the sunrise catching the most attractive attributes of his handsome profile.

 

Enjolras looks from Courfeyrac whose smiles regardless, towards Combeferre, who silently obverses the carnage and listens out for the drumming of boot soles on the blood stained pavements. His hand reaches out wordlessly for Enjolras, slipping into the chilled but firm hold.

 

It makes him think back, to the days when he comes back to his rooms after meetings to find the two already at home in his bed, exchanging lazy kisses and whispered words of love whilst bathed in orange twilight. Days when they smile upon his arrival pull him between the two of them and bestow upon him the same affections. ‘Oh Enjolras, our love is as sure as the birds do sing in the mornings of spring’

 

There are birds twittering in the background now. Birds will sing constantly, oblivious to the folly of men. With Combeferre’s hand in his, Enjolras lays the free hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, heaving a soft sigh.

 

“I dare say, that I agree with you Courfeyrac” 

**Author's Note:**

> In which friends on tumblr take full advantage of open requests to encourage me to do bad things and that is how this fic, ~~and the inevitable fics that will follow after i~~ t, occurred. 
> 
> The Robespierre speech the boys recite can be found [here](http://www.bartleby.com/268/7/23.html) 
> 
> Any further questions/ comments/ anything else can be left [here](http://sodafly.tumblr.com/)


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